What is the Cost?
by dannyphanfiction
Summary: After a close call in the school locker room, Danny reminisces on his scars and the true costs of his role as Phantom.


Alright, alright, listen. It's really not that bad, okay? No, really!

Okay, so he's officially two years deep into this whole ghost fighting thing, and honestly, it's been great! Sure, his grades have plummeted, his relationship with his parents has stretched to a near breaking-point, and his life goals have oozed away like ectoplasm…

No, okay, so it's not entirely fine, but it's mostly cool. Hell, his life has real purpose! He wakes up—ugh, he hates that part—and he knows what he gets up for. Protecting his town, his people...it's everything. And really—

"Holy shit, Fenton, what's all that?!"

Ah, right. That.

"Uhhh, I'm a war veteran?"

So the ghost hunting may have another downside. Or, perhaps more accurately, another dozen tiny downsides. I mean, come on!

You can't expect him to have gotten through countless battles unscathed, right?

"Guys, come look at how fucked up Fenton is!"

Danny grimaces and tugs his shirt on before the rest of the locker room can sneak a look. A crowd has assembled outside the stall where Dash is cornering a somewhat-flustered, mostly-annoyed, and now thankfully-clothed Danny Fenton.

"Geez, can't a guy get a little privacy around here?"

Dash steps further into the stall, and Danny takes a half-step back. He silently thanks whatever powers that be for making him choose the larger stall to change in today.

"Wow, he is fucked up!" one jock pipes up, but Dash rolls his eyes.

"Not his face, you idiot…" He pauses, hand coming up to his chin and head tilting up thoughtfully. "Well, wait, actually his face, too." He shakes his head a little. "Show 'em, Fenton! Take your shirt off!"

"Yeah, take your shirt off!"

"Uh, that's not going to happen," Danny says. His face is scrunched up, however. He is literally cornered here, after all.

Dash steps forward, and Danny, of course, takes a step closer to the door of the stall. But with the crowd gathered around his exit, there's nowhere to go unless he wants to crawl under and into the adjacent stall (no) or Phantom his way out of here (double no).

"Show them all what you've been hiding, Fen-toenail," Dash coerces. His hands are reaching for the hem of Danny's gym shirt, and Danny slaps them away.

"Get away from me, Dash," Danny says.

"Yeah, cut it out, you perv!" Tucker chimes in.

Right, Tucker's here! And Danny's friend has given the perfect opening. A small bit of the tension in Danny's shoulders falls away.

"Seriously, Dash, why're you being such a creep?" he asks. His chest puffs out and his shoulders lay back. "You wanna see me shirtless that bad?"

It's a low blow. But it does the job well enough.

"Gaaaaaaayyyyy!" a student yells, and a few more chime in. Most in the locker room are laughing now. But Danny isn't.

And Dash sure as hell doesn't find it funny: his face is growing redder by the moment, and the veins on his neck are practically popping out of his skin.

Without warning, he marches the couple of steps to Danny and slams his right forearm onto the thin metal wall next to Danny's head. He actually very much resembles an angry bull in this moment, eyes wide, nostrils flared, and broad shoulders stiffened up near his chin.

"You—" he starts, but he's cut off by the sound of salvation.

"Boys, let's go!" the gym coach yells through the door. "You have ten seconds before you're all stuck with an extra five laps! Move it!"

The nerds clear out first, normals and jocks following closely behind. Dash doesn't even move for those few seconds, glaring into Danny's eyes, mere inches from his face. Finally, Dash lets a breath out through his nose.

"I'm gonna get you for this, Fenton." And he stalks away.

Danny lets out his breath, and Tucker steps in to put a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay, dude?" he asks, and Danny just silently nods.

They both let out a sigh. After a moment, Tucker pats Danny's shoulder.

"We'll talk about it later," Tucker says, nudging Danny with his elbow. "Let's get out there before coach gives us even more laps."

Danny lets out a quiet laugh, a small smile landing on his face. He leans into Tucker, pushing him back with his shoulder before wrapping an arm around him.

"Seriously," Danny replies, snagging his gym bag off the hook. He doesn't bother unlocking his small gym locker, instead simply stuffing the bag through its door with intangibility.

They're both given the promised five extra laps, and it's enough to have them both sweating by the end. But even the horrors of cardio have their upsides, and Danny's mind forgets the incident in the locker room.

For a while, anyway.

He pushes the memory out of his mind through lunch and the rest of his classes, and even the walk home is uneventful.

But this is Amity Park, and things are rarely quiet for long.

Another day, another ghost, another injury. This is what he's used to.

Really, it isn't so bad. Sure, there have been close calls, but he's made it through every time. He's been forced to practice and learn his limit for blood loss and general exhaustion, and his confidence for avoiding injury has improved.

And when he's not quite fast enough...when a cut goes just a little too deep or a break sets just a little bit off...well, that's what he has Sam, Jazz, and Tucker for.

But most injuries he handles on his own.

Hands washed, door locked, blinds shut. Lights on and music up. At this point, it's habit.

His shirt comes off and is tossed to the side. Honestly, it's time to make the switch to black—or anything but white, really.

Gauze and tape, water, salt. Easy to hide, easy to store, and all he will need.

He starts by taking a breath and placing his right hand over the shoulder wound, forcing a little cold into the skin. Wrapping it up won't hurt too badly, but the numbness will be appreciated. And if the bruising heals a little bit faster because of it—well, that's just a nice cherry on top.

A saline solution is created with just a bit of salt and water, and a strip of gauze can be dipped in and used to clean the wound. This one's not too deep, but it's wide and raw, and blood keeps rising to its surface. He's honest with himself and winces while he wipes his shoulder clean. Bits of gravel fall from the wound, accumulating in a small pile next to him, which he pushes to the side.

After wiping up the bit of blood that has dripped down his chest and back, he takes a large, clean gauze pad and sets it over the wound, taping it tightly into place.

The 'big' one's taken care of, leaving only minor cuts and scrapes. But his healing factor will take care of them fast enough, so he doesn't even bother giving them the same attention.

He sits back. He pushes his supplies and the dirty gauze and gravel to the side. But he doesn't move from the mirror.

 _"Look at how fucked up Fenton is!"_

He abides, scooting closer.

It's not so bad. Really.

There's only been a handful of head-shots over the years, leaving few lasting impressions. A slightly bent nose and a tiny dent at the top of his forehead—that's mostly all that can be viewed from the front.

A shirt hides the majority of his scars.

Most of his wounds are from the first year—meaning that most have faded from their original bright red. Still, minor discolorations or lumps of scar tissue remain in some areas, especially on the more notable wounds. The ones he needed help for.

He turns around to look over his good shoulder at his back. This is what Dash saw when he first shoved into the stall, and Danny can understand the disgust. It's not a model's back, for sure.

His back has had affairs with so many buildings at this point, it's genuinely laughable. So he laughs. A short and ironic 'Ha' that perfectly summarizes it all.

The top of his back is stained a patchy yellow-brown from how many times it's been bruised, and small lines and marks ranging from white to red take up parts of the rest. There's two particularly nasty slices from earlier this year that must have raised a brow. Now that fight was not fun.

He remembers without nostalgia the burn scar that mars his right side, making him look like a latexed movie monster, and the bruises on his stomach from just earlier this week. He doesn't look near his heart. The scar just inches from it has been seared into his brain, and the memory still makes him stop cold.

He looks at the gauzed wound on his shoulder and finally back to his face, peering into his eyes.

He lets out a breath. And he smiles.

He's fucked up, definitely—that's just part of the territory—but he knows what he's fucked up for.

And that's all that matters.


End file.
